Strange Dream, Stranger Reality
by Ms Sherlock Holmes
Summary: Sherlock has a strange dream about John that leaves his mind reeling. But soon that dream begins to take a firm hold on reality as he is unable to shake off the effects of it: new feelings begin to rise where John is concern and the consulting detective does not know what's happening to him nor does he know how to handle the situation. This time, even his cold logic can't help him.
1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock opened his eyes and immediately zoned in on the fact that he was not in his own bedroom. He slowly sat up and gazed around sleepily and discovered that he was in John's room. Not only his room but also his bed. What was he doing there? Sherlock couldn't recall for the life of him how he managed to find his way there. He should leave the room before John came back: he had a feeling the doctor would not be too pleased if he discovered his flatmate was loitering in his bed._

_Before the consulting detective could even remove the blankets John walked in. Sherlock froze and swiftly glanced at his friend. What punishment must he endure for this? Knowing the doctor, it was most likely going to be a lecture about respecting other people's personal space. How could Sherlock explain to him that he had no idea what he was doing there in the first place? John wouldn't believe him._

"_Already here, I see," John said with a smile. "I didn't know you were so eager."_

_Eager? Eager for what? Sherlock tried to deduce John's meaning but he failed to do so. Everything about the doctor was unreadable: there was a light in his eyes that Sherlock did not recognize and it made the consulting detective slightly nervous. Where was the data? John was usually an abundant source for them. Why was he so undecipherable tonight? Sherlock resisted the temptation to back away._

_John climbed on the bed and looked at Sherlock deep into his eyes. "You're incredible," John whispered into Sherlock's ear. "Absolutely beautiful."_

_The consulting detective shivered as he felt his friend's breath tickle him ever so slightly. He suddenly felt the need to press himself against John, to hold and embrace him. What was this feeling? It was powerful; it was foreign. Sherlock never knew he was capable of having such emotions. If only he knew how to identify what they were._

_Sherlock jumped a little as he felt John's lips graze his collarbone. "Shh," John whispered soothingly. "It's okay; I won't hurt you. If you feel uncomfortable, let me know and I'll stop."_

_The problem was that Sherlock wasn't sure if he _was_ uncomfortable. He let John kiss his neck and jaw line while wondering where this was going. John then pressed his lips against Sherlock's, making the consulting detective gasp with both shock and pleasure. He felt a little frightened but he didn't want to move away: the sensation that was starting to overwhelm him felt extremely good in a strange kind of way. He should probably stop what was happening but Sherlock quickly discovered that he didn't have the willpower to do so._

_John leaned forward, forcing Sherlock to lean back. They fell onto the bed, their bodies entwined, and the embrace, Sherlock briefly noted, was becoming fiercely passionate. The consulting detective moaned as the doctor found a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Whatever was happening felt absolutely amazing, but the trouble Sherlock was having with producing a single coherent thought was worrying him slightly. Was that supposed to happen? Being unable to think properly was never a good thing in his book._

_John never broke the kiss once as he began to multitask. Sherlock became acutely aware of his friend undressing him, undoing the buttons of his shirt with a single hand. The consulting detective then felt that hand travel down his body, feeling every exposed bit of skin it could reach, towards a very intimate part of his anatomy – _

Sherlock Holmes woke up with a start and sat up abruptly. His heart was racing, he was sweating profusely, breathing hard and trembling like a leaf but he was at least, he noticed with intense relief, in his own bed within his own bedroom and he was very much alone. What kind of dream was that? Who had such dreams about their flatmates, about their _friends_? Sherlock hadn't had dreams of that nature since he was a teenager and even then they were quite scarce. What did it mean? Was he falling ill and was now suffering from some sort of hallucinations? Normally, he would have John examine him if he believed he had anything remotely serious (something else that seldom occurred) but Sherlock didn't think he wanted to have John around for this. It would just be too awkward.

The consulting detective took a deep breath. It was just a dream; it meant _nothing_. He repeated that thought to himself until he at least semi-believed it and sunk back into his pillows. Hopefully things will look better in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up after what felt like only a few short hours of sleep. Bits and pieces of the dream kept coming back to him, making his sleep restless. The consulting detective groaned: what was wrong with him? One did not have those kinds of dreams about their best friend. And if that said best friend found out… Sherlock suppressed a shudder. He would hate it if John knew about the contents of his nightly vision. He would probably think Sherlock _desired_ him. Sherlock Holmes, desire someone? Rubbish! He must have been spending too much time with the likes of Anderson and Donavan: remaining in the presence of world class idiots _did_ reduce the brain's intelligence quotient, after all. Feeling slightly reassured, Sherlock got out of bed, slipped his robe on and went out into the sitting room.

John was already sitting at the table, sipping his coffee and eating his breakfast while reading the newspaper. Sherlock paused in his tracks, openly staring at his friend without realizing it. The image of the doctor touching him intimately appeared in his mind's eye and Sherlock roughly shook his head, desperately trying to get rid of the picture that was threatening to overwhelm him again.

"Sherlock?"

A flood of heat burned the consulting detective's cheeks as he heard his name being uttered by the man who had invaded that damned nightly vision. Sherlock frowned: he was _blushing_ now? When was the last time he did _that_? The memory returned to him and he rolled his eyes. He remembered now, and it had been all Mycroft's fault. Damn him and his need to be the best. And he actually wondered why his younger brother refused to speak to him.

"Uh, are you okay, Sherlock? You look a little flushed all of a sudden," John said a little worriedly. Sherlock was able to sense his friend's instincts as a doctor flare up and he rolled his eyes a second time. He hated it when John – or anyone – fussed over him; it made him feel like some helpless child. He could take care of himself regardless what was ailing him, and he was determined to find out exactly _what_ was attacking his brain.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied in his usual manner as he approached the table and settled himself into a chair. "And good morning to you too."

"Good morning," John said, eyeing Sherlock closely. "Are you _sure_ there's nothing –"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, a little harshly.

"All right, _all right_. There's no need to bite."

"Then don't make it so easy."

John sighed heavily and shook his head before returning to his breakfast, his attention once again upon the newspaper. Light footsteps were coming up the stairs and Sherlock turned his head on time to see Mrs Hudson bustle in. That woman was always ridiculously cheerful in the morning, something that, despite himself, Sherlock found somewhat endearing. Mrs Hudson was very much like a mother to him and her motherly instincts almost never failed to detect something wrong with her boys, as demonstrated by the scrutiny she was throwing his way as she entered the kitchen.

"Good morning, you two," Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen. "Everything all right, Sherlock, dear?"

"All is peachy, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied indifferently, snatching the newspaper right out of John's hand.

"Hey!" John cried. "I was reading that!"

"And now I'm reading it. I need to be on the lookout for any interesting cases."

"See that pile of correspondence that you stabbed a knife into on the mantel? Go examine those instead!"

"I have one word for them: dull."

"Then why keep them?"

"Everyone needs a good laugh here and there, John."

"Laughing at other people's problems. _Very_ nice."

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, no."

"You boys argue like a pair of teenagers at times. Sherlock, you look like someone who woke up quite suddenly in the middle of the night and didn't rest sufficiently afterwards. Did you have a nightmare?" Mrs Hudson asked with genuine concern.

"Children have nightmares, Mrs Hudson. I'm not a child," Sherlock said. The honest truth was that he didn't know if the dream _could_ be called a nightmare. Whatever it was, the consulting detective wanted to forget about it as quickly as he could.

"I had nightmares when I returned from Afghanistan," John stated sharply.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You were a soldier. If you had told me that you suffered no posttraumatic symptoms upon leaving the war I would have been very surprised," Sherlock informed him.

The doctor simply looked at him. "Good save," he replied as he took a sip from his coffee, smiling a little into his mug. Sherlock couldn't help but noticed that, even when partly concealed, John had a nice smile. It lit up his features, especially his eyes. Those eyes were the first to gaze upon him in awe and wonder and not in anger and resentment when the consulting detective had deduced everything about the doctor. Sherlock remembered the small but powerful bubble of happiness that had swelled inside him at the admiration John had for him: it was – dared he say it? – nice.

"Sherlock? Are you still with us?" John asked.

Sherlock roughly shook his head and opened his mouth to answer. Before he could even make a sound a shrill scream came from the kitchen. Sherlock sighed as John widened his eyes.

"Don't," Sherlock told him as John made a move to stand. "It's just an experiment, Mrs Hudson. And before you ask, I did not behead anyone."

"_Another_ severed head in the fridge? Sherlock…" John said, sitting back down.

"What? You know I keep human body parts in the kitchen and so does our landlady. I don't know what the fuss is about," Sherlock replied indignantly.

"It's disturbing."

"It's _science_."

John huffed impatiently and crossed his arms. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction before returning to the newspaper. A few robberies occurred but they were far too commonplace to pique the consulting detective's interest; a murder down in Kensington that was so painfully obvious that Sherlock felt Scotland Yard would be shut down if they didn't figure out who the criminal was by the end of the day; an old house caught fire, clearly caused by an outdated heating system. Sherlock sighed again. Weren't there _any_ decent crimes in London?

"I would like to have my newspaper back, please," John suddenly said.

Sherlock did not even spare him a glance. "I'm still reading it," he said tonelessly.

"_I_ had it first."

"And now I have it. Wait your turn."

"All right, then. If that's how you want to play it then I'll just read _with_ you."

_Come again?_ Sherlock thought. He heard John's chair scrape the floor and became acutely aware of a presence hovering over him. John was leaning over his shoulder, reading the various articles. He was so close that Sherlock was not only able to smell the aftershave off him but also feel the heat he was radiating. The consulting detective shivered and his heart began to race to the point it became difficult to breathe, and he tried his hardest to calm it while almost panicking at what was happening; was he suffering a heart attack? John then suddenly extended a hand to turn the page and in the process he brushed his friend's hand. An electric current passed through that brief moment of contact and Sherlock sprang away from the doctor out of shock, knocking down his chair. His heart continued to pound hard against his chest and he could not think clearly. This was not the first time John had touched him so why this reaction? It had to be that damn dream messing with his mind; it _had_ to be! Sherlock could see no other logic explanation to why being in such close proximity to his friend was making him react this way.

John was staring at him in astonishment and the clatter the fallen chair had made had lured Mrs Hudson from the kitchen.

"What was that noise?" she asked. She noticed the chair. "Oh, Sherlock! It's bad enough that you store human heads in the refrigerator but please try not to damage the furniture. It's not a difficult request, you know."

"I – I –" Sherlock stammered. Now he couldn't _speak_ properly? What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock, are you _sure_ you're all right? You're very agitated all of a sudden," John said worriedly.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound and rushed back to his bedroom before he could embarrass himself further. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it. He was shaking all over, and he could barely support himself. How could one dream do all this? Or was he slowly going mad? Sherlock was having a hard time trying to distinguish the two; if only he had a case to distract himself from this madness.

It suddenly hit him and the consulting detective almost laughed out of sheer relief: he was going through a serious case withdrawal. There had been no mind-boggling investigations in three weeks and Sherlock had been almost climbing the walls (he would have shot them if John didn't always keep his gun on him) due to severe frustration. His mind had never been able to endure stagnation and now thanks to this prolonged period of idleness it was trying to shield itself from the everlasting boredom by creating bizarre, complex scenarios. Sherlock needed to get down to Scotland Yard and see if Lestrade had something for him to work on. The consulting detective was willing to tackle even the weakest of challenges: anything to ease his mind once more.

Sherlock practically threw his clothes on and went back out. He made his way down the hallway and into the sitting room, where Mrs Hudson had now joined John at the dining table. They both looked at him and Sherlock tried to ignore them as he made his way to the door. As he was putting his coat on, he heard one of them stand up and he silently deduced who it was by the sound of the chair scraping the floor.

"Where are you going?" John asked. Sherlock could almost hear the 'You're not going anywhere' in that tone.

"Out," he replied coolly, tying his scarf.

"I think you should stay in," John declared firmly.

"And I think I need to go out," Sherlock said, straightening his spine. "Problem?"

"Yes, problem! You're acting abnormally."

"Which is exactly why I need to _leave_."

Before John could say another word, Sherlock stormed out. He quickly descended the stairs and stepped outside. The sun was shining high in the bright blue sky and the Londoners were all out and about, enjoying the lovely weather. Sherlock hailed a taxi and climbed into it as it slowed to stop in front of him. He instructed the driver to bring him to Scotland Yard and they eased into the traffic. Sherlock leaned against the seat and watched London fly by. Hopefully, the mental exercise he was desperately craving will bring his mind back to safer, more rational place.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard twenty minutes later. He paid the driver and approached the tall building. He had mixed feelings about this place: he enjoyed that it was a goldmine of criminal investigations but he despised how it was crawling with incompetent idiots. Anderson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, and the Dim of the Yard Detective Inspector Dimmock were the most notable of those imbeciles (especially Dimmock; how did he even get into police academy?). At least Lestrade had _some_ potential, since he was the only one who had enough common sense to call him whenever an investigation became too complex for their simple minds. The consulting detective wondered what they would ever do without him.

The Yarders were running left, right and center all round him as he made his way towards the elevators. He caught bits and pieces of conversations: some were about weekend activities, others about relationship problems, while most addressed the topic of business. Each was too dull for his attention, Sherlock thought as he waiting outside an elevator. The doors opened and he froze. Donovan and Anderson stepped out and they paused in their tracks to glare at him. Sherlock gave them the iciest stare he could muster, not in the mood to deal with them.

"Look, the freak's here," Donovan sneered.

"Good morning, Sally," Sherlock said sardonically. "And to you, Anderson."

"What are you doing here? Don't say Greg called you here; we know he didn't," Anderson said, eyeing the consulting detective with suspicion and dislike.

"Once again, Anderson, you are lowering the IQ of the entire street by speaking alone. I am perfectly aware that Lestrade hasn't called me. I'm the one who's paying a visit to him."

"He's busy, freak. Don't bother him."

"He's never too busy to see me. He knows when I come around he has to listen."

"What do you want from him?"

"That's none of your business, Donovan."

"He's my boss so it _is_ my business."

"Aren't we touchy this morning? This beats the time Anderson was furious about his wife discovering his one-night stand with you."

"Now just wait a damn minute!" Anderson exclaimed indignantly as Sherlock walked passed them and into the elevator.

"Here's a little piece of advice for you, Sally: might I suggest you start sleeping with _unmarried_ men? That way you will not be kicked out of their house the second the sun has risen _and _you would be much more pleasant to deal with," Sherlock said bluntly. "Good day."

The elevator doors closed on Donovan and Anderson's scandalized faces and Sherlock leaned against the wall. He must have lost at least ten percent of his intelligence by just talking with those two. He prayed Lestrade had something remotely good in store for him.

Sherlock reached the detective inspector's floor and had to press himself against the wall as he stepped out of the elevator. A group of Yarders nearly ran him over as they went to deal with whatever emergency that was calling out to them. The consulting detective wondered if it involved Lestrade's division.

He soon got his answer as he reached his destination. Lestrade was sitting at his desk, munching on a bagel and drinking a steaming cup of coffee from Starbucks while going through some files, clearly having nothing to do with the crisis. Sherlock let himself in and sat in front of the detective inspector and waited for his presence to be acknowledged. It did not take long for Lestrade to realize he was no longer alone.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said evenly, not taking his eyes off his work. "I don't recall calling you here. To what I owe this visit?"

"I need work, Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"I don't have anything that would interest you. I have some wannabe criminals who didn't do a very good job at trying to commit a crime – you know, like those stupid robbers you see on the telly – and a whole lot of petty crimes that are barely worth looking into, even for a regular police officer. I have nothing complex."

"I'll take whatever you can give me. I can solve all those commonplace crimes for you."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise. "Are you being serious? You actually _want_ these, as you say, commonplace crimes?"

"Isn't that what I just said? I have been idle for _weeks_, Lestrade; I can't take it anymore."

"You _are_ serious. Well, in that case, Sherlock, help yourself. I have a cabinet full of recent criminal activity right next to me."

The consulting detective nodded and approached the cabinet Lestrade had identified. He began to rummage through the first drawer and saw that Lestrade had not been kidding when he had said there were some really stupid criminals out there. A person with a pickup truck had tried to pull an ATM machine from a wall with his vehicle and in result the back of the truck had ripped off. In their panic the criminal fled while leaving the license plate behind; the police had found them in no time.

Another person had tried to steal several cell phones. They would have been successful too, if they hadn't turned every single one of them on. The police found them within an hour and they were able to arrest the crook without a fight. Sherlock could not believe how weak and incredibly moronic people could be

The next criminal had been less cooperative. He had tried to rob a bank but the clerks set off the alarm, triggering his panic. According to the security footage, he tried to leave the bank but kept pushing the door the wrong way and was unable to escape. He wasted so much time trying to open the door that Scotland Yard was able to arrive on the scene while he was still there. The criminal tried to shoot the police through the doors but he missed with each shot. The officers forced their way inside and they disarmed him and pinned him to the ground, where he tried to put up a fight. He was heavily outnumbered and eventually gave up.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade to stare at him incredulously. "These people can't be real, Lestrade," he said.

"Sadly, they are," Lestrade replied amusedly. "These crimes are just too stupid to make up. I warned you, didn't I?"

"You did," Sherlock mumbled, turning back to the cabinet.

"Try the lower drawer. They have what you're looking for."

The consulting detective nodded and complied. He was relieved to find the unsolved case files and pulled them all out, closing the drawer with his hip. He looked over his pile and found the detective inspector watching him with interest.

"Planning on solving _all_ of those?" Lestrade asked.

"Obviously."

"Well, the meeting area is clear for the day as far as I know. Why don't you settle yourself there and report back to me when you're done?"

"Fine."

Without another word, Sherlock made his way out of the office and down the corridor. He could feel the curious glances being cast his way but he paid them no mind; he was used to being the object of scrutiny in Scotland Yard. But usually the staring was for a less positive reason.

Sherlock entered the meeting room and placed all the files on the table. He then turned around and locked the door. He had no wish to be disturbed, and if Anderson or Donovan (or, God forbid, both) suddenly came in he would probably do something he _might_ regret. He could not be held accountable for them making bad decisions, especially while being in the heart of Scotland Yard out of all places. He was not certain if he would be able to worm his way out of the calamity it would cause.

The consulting detective sat down and opened the first file. He didn't know how much time it would take for him to resolve each case but he prayed that it would prevent his mind from crafting another dream like the one he had the previous night. One dream like that was enough to last a lifetime.

* * *

Sherlock was more than halfway through the files when a knock on the door made him jump a foot and a half in the air a good two hours later. Wondering who would dare to break his concentration like that, he turned around and his eyes widened to the size of small plates at the sight of John staring at him through the glass walls. The doctor made a sign for him to open the door and, after a small moment of hesitation, Sherlock complied. He didn't know whether he should be pleased or not at the fact his friend had managed to track him down but he let John come inside and indicated that he should sit down. John chose the chair next to Sherlock's and he watched on silently as the consulting detective returned to his seat. Uncomfortably aware of the doctor's eyes on him, Sherlock returned to his work.

"You found me," he said quietly. "Congratulations."

"It took me a while to do so. I honestly didn't think that you would coop yourself up in here out of all places," John replied, a hint of irony tingeing his tone.

"Well, I have. Now why are you here?"

"I came to find you, obviously. I was a little worried."

"Why? I always leave without warning."

"Not like that! Something's bothering you and you're trying to run away from it. Mind telling me what it is?"

"_Nothing_ is bothering me, John. You can stop worrying."

"I'm not so sure that I believe that. Did you have a nightmare last night, just like Mrs Hudson said?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

"What part of 'Nothing is bothering me' did you not you not understand, John?"

"I don't believe you."

"Really? I haven't noticed."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. You were very agitated this morning and, well, you were more eccentric than usual. I understand that you're different –"

"A high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much," Sherlock mumbled.

" – but even you can behave out of character. What went on this morning was _definitely_ unlike you. You know you can tell me anything, right?" John said with an encouraging smile.

_I do know that but that's not the problem_, Sherlock thought, hating where this conversation was going. He refused point blank to tell John about the dream. God only knew what that would do.

"Sherlock, you can trust me," John said, placing a hand on the consulting detective's arm.

The electric current passed through again and Sherlock tensed. It took all of his self-control to not react the way he did earlier; it was so tempting to bounce away. There was a strange sensation in his stomach and his mind was once again unable to process a coherent thought. Clearly, working on petty cases was doing nothing to help his brain. Sherlock should have known it wouldn't work but it was worth a try, he supposed.

John was eyeing him closely. It was apparent that he had felt Sherlock stiffen underneath his touch. The consulting detective tried to come up with an excuse to give him despite the crazy thoughts that were interfering with his muddled logic.

"John, I've had no work for the last few weeks. I am literally going out of my mind," Sherlock managed to say, a little breathlessly. "You know how I get when I become idle; can you blame me for behaving a little erratically?"

"So that's all it is, then? You're bored and it's driving you up the wall?" John asked uncertainly.

"You've just repeated what I said."

"If you're sure that's what's going on…"

"I'm positive, John. Now can you drop the subject before I make you?"

"Why? What are you going to do? Kill me and make me one of your scientific experiments?"

"If I have to," Sherlock said, catching the amused glint in John's eyes.

"All right. So what are we working on?" John said, leaning over to read the file the consulting detective was concentrating on.

"The murder in Kensington that was announced this morning in the paper. Dull stuff; hardly worth noticing."

"Why do you say that? Murders are your favorite type of crimes."

"You make me sound positively sadistic."

"Probably because a small part of you _is_."

Sherlock grabbed an unopened file and lightly hit John over the head with it. The doctor winced at the impact and he glared at the consulting detective, who was regarding him with a sense of satisfaction.

"What was that for?" John wanted to know, rubbing the top of his head.

"I am _not_ sadistic," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "Murders are just more complex."

"You whip corpses, you insult people beyond measure _and_ you once walked in the flat with a ginormous spear while covered in blood because you repeatedly speared a pig," John reminded him.

"The first and the latter were _dead_. And is it my fault that everyone is stupid?"

"There's still some pain inflicted there, and you have fun doing it. Oh, and like you're a proper genius, Mr. I-Like-To-Risk-My-Life-For-The-Thrill-Of-A-Chase." 

"All right, you've made your point. Anything else?"

"Yes, there is. Do we need to go down to Kensington to solve this murder?"

Sherlock smiled. Leave it to John to be so willing to help.

"I think I can resolve this without doing so. We only need to look at the data the Yarders have gathered and we can deduce where our murderer is hiding," Sherlock said quietly.

"You can do that without examining the crime scene in person?" John asked in awe.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Only a little bit. I don't doubt your talent, that's for sure."

The consulting detective's smile widened as he slid the file towards his friend. Despite the madness the dream was causing it was nice to be working in close proximity with John: having a friend to team up with was something Sherlock had learned to appreciate. The madness was still making itself vividly known, however: the slightest brush of the hand when exchanging sheets of papers would send Sherlock's heart racing; whenever John would lean forward to grab something that was on the other side of his friend his close form would send shivers down the consulting detective's spine; if Sherlock looked into John's eyes for even a second too long he would have to look away, his cheeks burning ever so slightly. That dream was still affecting him and it was about time John would also notice and resume asking annoying questions. Sherlock had to do something, before he was driven to a breaking point.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John were sitting in a spacious taxi, laughing at how incredulous Lestrade had appeared when they showed him their solution to the Kensington mystery. What topped it off was seeing how furious Anderson and Donovan were when all of them returned from the criminal's hideaway and saw that the consulting detective and his colleague were _right_. Once the incredulity had passed Lestrade had been impressed but the other two were determined that Sherlock had faulted somewhere. When their allegations came to a dead end after the crime labs had spent the entire afternoon analyzing each piece of evidence at _their_ request, they were forced to accept that the consulting detective had once again bested them. Sherlock and John left Scotland Yard in high spirits.

"How about some dinner? We can give Mrs Hudson the night off," John suggested lightly.

"We'll go to Angelo's," Sherlock stated, verifying his text messages.

"And I get no say in this, do I?" John asked, sounding off-putting.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You wanted to go out to eat and I just gave you a place," he said evenly. "I don't know why you're complaining: Angelo always makes sure we eat for free."

"I'm not complaining!"

"Did you even hear the last part of that sentence?"

"I – There's no point in arguing with you, is there?"

"I think even you can figure that one out, John."

The doctor sighed somewhat dramatically. "Why do I even bother?" he asked rhetorically. "Angelo's it is, then."

Sherlock smirked. "Indeed, why do you bother? Could it be that _you_ enjoy a challenge as much as I do?" the consulting detective asked, a little teasingly.

"Maybe I do. Who knows what the reason is? Personally, I'd rather keep the mystery alive."

"Good."

John fell silent as Sherlock removed his seatbelt, leaned towards the small window and gave the taxi driver directions to Angelo's restaurant. The driver nodded and took a sharp left turn that threw a surprised Sherlock almost face first against John. The doctor grunted as the consulting detective's slight weight fell on top of him, and Sherlock was slightly stunned by the impact.

"Sorry, mates," the driver said, looking into his rear view mirror.

"No problem," John mumbled irritably. "See what happens when you don't wear a seatbelt?" Sherlock felt his friend's hands gently take him by the biceps and straighten him.

"Are you okay?" John asked softly.

Sherlock looked at his friend and caught a light in those brown eyes that he had not seen before, and it made him slightly uneasy. He noticed that John's hands had remained on his arms and how there was little space separating them. The consulting detective swallowed hard. The physical contact was too much; they were too close.

"I only bumped into you, John," Sherlock said with as much indifference he could muster, extracting himself from his friend's grip and creating distance between them, clicking his seatbelt back into place. "It's not as if I ran headlong into a brick wall."

The light in the doctor's eyes vanished and it was replaced by – was that disappointment? There were times when Sherlock was unable to read his friend's moods and this was obviously one of those times; he might have imagined what he had seen for all he knew. The seeming disappointment went as quickly as it came and John gave what Sherlock perceived to be a very weak smile.

"I bloody well hope not," John said, trying to sound light. "I would've been insulted if you had compared me to a brick wall."

Somehow, Sherlock sensed that the disappointment had nothing to do with the insult but he kept quiet. They exchanged no more words until they reached the restaurant. During the remainder of the ride Sherlock kept replaying the moment where he collided into John: being so close to the doctor had made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Normally, the consulting detective would have associated the discomfort with his unease with close contact in general but this was different. He felt self-conscious all of a sudden, a feeling he had never previously experienced. John was clearly the cause of it but _how_ did he create this reaction? It was a strong one, and it sent Sherlock's mind reeling.

They arrived at Angelo's and Sherlock's phone rang as John paid the taxi driver. Frowning, the consulting detective took his phone out and saw that it was Lestrade calling. Why was he calling? Lestrade knew perfectly well how Sherlock hated to speak over the phone; texting was so much more convenient. The consulting detective sighed dramatically and reluctantly answered.

"You _know_ I hate phone calls, Lestrade," Sherlock said coolly. "This better be good."

"And hello to you too," Lestrade replied indifferently. "I'm calling you because I didn't want to wait for an answer via text message."

"You are perfectly aware that I reply to text messages immediately," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. John caught sight of his expression and was watching him with interest.

"Not when it's someone contacting you from Scotland Yard."

"Your reason for calling, Lestrade?"

"The press wants to do a conference about the Kensington murder and your presence is requested. John can come along if he wants but they're mainly interested in you."

"A press conference for a simple murder?"

"Well, you know the press: they like to get their hands on every story they can find. So will you be there, Sherlock?"

"You won't leave me alone until I say yes, won't you?"

"It's you they want so they won't leave _me_ alone until I promise them you."

"Fine. John's going to be there too whether they like it or not."

"What? Me? What do you need me for?" John wanted to know but Sherlock waved his question down.

"Great! The press conference will take place Friday morning at nine o'clock at Scotland Yard. See you then," Lestrade said cheerfully. "Have a good evening."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered as Lestrade terminated their connection. He hung up and pondered over the matter. The conference was on Friday, meaning it was four days away. That was barely enough time to be able to at _least_ get rid of the annoyance that was building inside him over this. Both the press and Lestrade would have to deal with whatever he threw at them.

John was still watching him expectantly. "And?" he said.

"I'll explain when we're seated," Sherlock replied abruptly. He swept past his friend and stepped inside the restaurant.

Angelo's business was, as per usual, a cheerful one. His enthusiasm for life had increased by a tenfold after he had been released for prison for car theft and it reflected in the atmosphere of the eatery. Despite the cheeriness Sherlock liked it here: the meals were excellent and Angelo never made him pay. It was a win-win situation in the consulting detective's eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!" Angelo exclaimed cheerfully, wringing their hands. "How are you this fine evening?"

"We're fine, Angelo," Sherlock answered with a smile. "I can see that you've got a new woman in your life."

"Why, indeed I do! How on earth did you know?"

"Your clothes have been ironed to perfection and smell of a brand new detergent that you've never previously used. Your hair has been slicked back with hair gel so that not one strand is out of place regardless having spent an entire day cooking and cleaning in the kitchen, and you are wearing a new pair of leather shoes, suggesting that a woman has brought you shopping since I know you can't choose a good pair of shoes for yourself without any kind of help. You always seem to pick the ones that disintegrate after a month or so."

Angelo laughed good-naturedly and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "It all sounds so simple when you explain it! Come with me. I will give you your usual table by the window," he said.

The restaurant owner led the two friends to their table and gave them each a menu. "Order anything you like. As usual, it's on the house," Angelo said enthusiastically. "I've just noticed that you don't have a candle. Every date needs a nice romantic candle."

"I'm not his date!" John called to Angelo's retreating back. "Every single time it's the same thing. Why does he keep thinking we're in a relationship?" he asked, turning back to Sherlock.

"Don't know," Sherlock replied somewhat absently as he perused the menu.

Angelo returned with the candle and placed it between them. He winked at them and returned to the kitchen.

"Thanks," John mumbled. "Say, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Why don't you ever correct Angelo whenever he calls us a couple?"

Sherlock jerked his head up from the menu so fast it was a wonder he did not snap his neck. It had never occurred to him but John was right: he never did correct Angelo on the subject. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had no answer. He never really thought of informing Angelo on the true nature of his relationship with John; he was always more interested in watching out for the criminals he was chasing. Now he had the doctor staring at him, waiting for a reasonable answer. Sherlock could only reply in the best way he knew how.

"Because it's not important, John," he said. "There are bigger things in life to worry about than how we are perceived in the eyes of the public."

"Ah…" There was that momentary flash of disappointment in John's eyes again. Sherlock was certain that he did not imagine it this time. Did he say something wrong? He possibly couldn't have: John was always the one moaning about how people got the wrong idea about them so the consulting detective's clinical reply should not have upset him. They _weren't_ a couple and there _were_ more important things than constantly correcting every single person who called them lovers.

The dream suddenly reappeared in Sherlock's mind's eye. Clearly, the nature of the dream suggested they were in a relationship, even if the one that had presented itself in Sherlock's sleep was a fictitious one: the touching, the undressing, the kissing… That kiss was what struck Sherlock the most. He might have felt a little uncertain as John embraced him but he had also felt new passions rise within him. It had been a little frightening, but it had felt good; almost a little _too_ good, in fact. A friend should not be able to trigger such sensations. Sherlock allowed the dream to replay itself in his mind as he analyzed it, trying to find some pattern or any kind of logical explanation. He could find none.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective gave a start as he remembered where he was. John was eyeing him curiously and Sherlock cleared his throat before focusing on the menu again.

"What were you thinking about?" John asked.

"Nothing!" Sherlock replied hastily, and he nearly winced when realized he had said that a little too quickly.

"Come on, Sherlock. I know when you enter your 'mind palace.' What's on your mind?"

"I said there was nothing."

"I don't believe you. But I can see that you're embarrassed so I'll drop it."

"I'm not embarrassed!"

"Yeah? Tell that to your red face."

"It's frustration."

"Sure it is."

Sherlock glared fiercely at John, who was chuckling softly, and said the first thing that came to his mind as a desperate attempt to quell his friend's mirth. "Speaking of embarrassing, how about that time you blurted out that you wanted to 'get off with Sarah' just as she was coming up behind you?" Sherlock hissed irritably.

It was John's turn to go red. "First of all, _very_ mature. Second of all, shut up!" he whispered angrily.

"Then do mind your own business, John, and I'll do the same," Sherlock replied softly, his voice as cool as ice.

"Well, forgive me for taking interest in what you do."

"Ready to order, or should I wait for the passion to subside?"

Sherlock and John simultaneously turned their heads and found Angelo watching them happily. Sherlock realized with shock that he and John had unconsciously leaned forward over the table towards one another, resulting in their faces being only inches apart. Flushing, Sherlock and John hastily pulled back and avoided looking at each other in the eye.

"Did I interrupt a kiss? Please forgive me if I have," Angelo said, sounding genuinely sorry.

"Don't worry, Angelo, you didn't," John said, a little shakily. He returned the menus to the restaurant owner. "Just bring us our usual, please."

Angelo nodded eagerly. "I've never seen Sherlock blush before. It just goes to show how perfect you are for him, Doctor: you bring out sides of him that no one else can!"

"I can see that," John concurred, his expression softening as he watched his friend. Angelo gave the doctor's shoulder a congratulatory squeeze before heading back to the kitchen.

Sherlock groaned internally. That damn dream was going to be the death of him and the day was not even over yet! Moriarty was a lesser threat compared to that dream. Even the consulting detective couldn't deny that he was behaving strangely: his inability to deal with the situation was making him even more erratic than usual. He was not supposed to act so – so – _human_. Along with the bizarre feelings that had been attacking his senses only when he was with John, Sherlock was surprised he was sitting in a restaurant and not in a mental institution.

He blamed it all on that one dream. If he hadn't dreamt such an _erotic_ (Sherlock shuddered at the word) dream he would not be in this mess. He only prayed that a new day would bring everything back to normal; until then, he needed to brace himself for any more silliness.

"Let's change the subject, shall we?" John suggested kindly. Sherlock, while maintaining his cool exterior, exhaled in relief on the inside. "What do you need me for? You were saying something about me being somewhere with you on the phone earlier."

"Oh, that was just Lestrade calling to tell me the press wants to do a conference with me about the Kensington murder," Sherlock said airily. "Dull stuff, but I want you to accompany me."

"If it's so boring then why do I have to tag along?"

"You're my colleague, Einstein."

"Right. So when's the conference?"

"Friday morning at nine o'clock sharp. It'll be held at Scotland Yard."

"Good to know. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"There's no need to sound so suspicious."

"I have my reasons."

"Okay. Listen, when I asked you earlier if you were all right and you told me there was nothing wrong –"

"Oh, for God's sake! Not this again!"

"– I was wondering if you were telling the truth. You were acting weird this morning and it hasn't stopped. When I questioned Lestrade – "

"Yes, I'm quite sure _he's_ reliable."

"– he said that you were eager to solve _simple_ cases. Simple! That's a far cry from the Sherlock Holmes that I know."

Sherlock gave John a withering look. "_That's_ the Sherlock I know," the doctor said, sounding a bit relieved. "But seriously, Sherlock, is there anything bothering you? Answer me honestly."

There was something bothering him, that was certain, but Sherlock had no intention on telling him that.

"I'm _fine_, John. Do _not_ make me repeat myself," Sherlock said menacingly.

"And I can see that I've touched a sore point. I won't ask anymore but if you keep behaving abnormally I _will_ be making some investigations of my own. Do I make myself clear?" John replied sternly.

"Yes, mother," Sherlock said irritably as Angelo returned with their meal.

"Enjoy, boys!" Angelo exclaimed cheerfully.

"Thanks!" John told him as he retreated. He turned back to Sherlock. "How about we eat and forget about the whole thing for now?"

Sherlock nodded and they began to eat in silence. The likelihood of John's plan to investigate gaining fruition was very low: the consulting detective was excellent at erasing his traces. He had always told himself that if he worked against the law he would make a formidable criminal. John would most likely discover nothing but Sherlock would have to be careful all the same. It would not be the first time the doctor would manage to surprise him with his abilities.


	5. Chapter 5

BANG!

That was the sound that echoed repeatedly all over the room at the Crime Academy shooting range the following afternoon. Sherlock expertly aimed his gun at his target, piercing it with every bullet he fired without missing a single shot. He had initially shot the walls of his flat on Baker Street but Mrs Hudson nearly had a fit seeing her lodgings being desecrated so after a quick round of text messages with Lestrade (who managed to pull some strings) he decided it would be best to relocate to Scotland Yard's police academy. There he could shoot a target as much as he liked without being disturbed. Sherlock was able to feel the gazes of the students on him: some watched him in admiration; others would glare at him out of jealousy. Either way, he paid them no mind.

Sherlock needed to exercise his frustration. Another dream found its way into his mind last night of the same romantic nature with a different setting: this time he and John were at Angelo's restaurant. The dream had started as a replay of last night's dinner up until the point they were leaning over the table and glaring at each other. Suddenly, Sherlock felt his irritation soften and he cupped a hand to the side of John's face. The doctor leaned into it and covered it with his own hand, closing his eyes with an expression of contentment. Sherlock was then possessed by the desire to kiss him and he slowly bent towards him. John met him halfway and pressed his lips against his, sending an electric chill down the consulting detective's spine. The kiss was chaste but powerful, and nothing Sherlock had ever thought a kiss could be.

He wanted to hit his head against the wall as he fired his gun away. The worst part of the dream was that he had not only _enjoyed_ that kiss but he had also _felt_ it. He was going mad, he was sure of it. What horrible deed did he commit – the list was long but that was not the point – to deserve such punishment? A life sentence to prison and hard labor would be more welcoming than this.

Sherlock sighed and looked at his gun without seeing it, holding it with both hands. Two dreams in two nights and both were regarding a type of relationship he didn't want with John. At least, he didn't _think_ he wanted it. It wasn't that the dreams were unpleasant; they were unfamiliar, for lack of a better term. He hated to admit it, but it _was_ sort of nice to have someone _want_ him, even if it only happened in his dreams. But it wasn't reality, and reality was life was full of criminal activity that needed to be dealt with. The consulting detective had no time to indulge in trivial things like fantasy, no matter how much a part of him wanted to.

Resigned, Sherlock aimed his gun at his target. He was about to pull the trigger when he heard a voice behind him.

"Glad that I managed to pull some strings to get you in here?"

Startled, Sherlock misfired and his bullet flew past his own target and into the neighboring one. He stared at his gaffe with a slightly open mouth as his neighbor glared at him reproachfully. Sherlock returned the glare with all his might and the student quickly looked away and resumed his practice. The consulting detective then turned around and found Lestrade watching him in amusement.

"Very impressive. Was that planned at all?" Lestrade said jokingly, almost yelling over the sound of guns firing.

"Shut up," Sherlock replied.

"Did you even _sense_ me coming?"

"I was severely concentrated on the task at hand. As much as it is tempting at times, I do not want to pass a bullet through anyone's head."

"Come now, Sherlock, you're an expert shooter. Admit it, I managed to scare you!"

"You didn't, Lestrade. Let me know when you've descended from cloud nine."

"What's the matter with you? You're snippier than usual."

"An excellent observation, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade and shot his target a few more times. He heard the detective inspector sigh heavily behind him.

"You know, John's the one who put me up to this."

The consulting detective nearly dropped his gun at the sound of his friend's name and faced Lestrade again. "W-What?" Sherlock stammered, uncertain if his ears were deceiving him.

"We're not supposed to let outsiders in here but John called me last night and asked to make it possible for you to have a place here today due to some spot of personal trouble you seem to be in. Is it true that you at shoot your own walls as a way to relieve your frustrations?" Lestrade said.

"Again, shut up," Sherlock snapped harshly. "I should have known I got in here too easily: your 'talk' with the academy's director barely lasted ten minutes!"

"What can I say? We gotta plan ahead where you're concern," Lestrade said proudly.

Sherlock eyed him warily. "What?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to try to pry into what's supposedly bothering me? John tried to do that to me all day yesterday," Sherlock told him. "You two are on the same team, apparently. What are you, his personal private detective?"

"John's genuinely concerned about you and since he promised not to badger you anymore he wanted me to help you a little. Besides, now that I know you attack innocent walls in your spare time I would much rather have you here."

"The walls have it coming. And you are _not_ helping!"

"Really? It seems that I have given a place for reflection."

"I do that everywhere!"

"Come on, Sherlock! I've been watching you from the shadows since you got here. Yes, you think all the time but not in the manner you were earlier: you looked like you were pondering over something that is far beyond your knowledge."

"And what if I was? What's it to you?"

"Nothing. It's none of my business unless you choose to include me, which you can if you want to. I'm going to leave you before you decide to bite my head off. Make sure you put everything away when you're done."

"Yes, Mother Hen," Sherlock muttered irritably at Lestrade's retreating form. Who did he think he was, cooperating with John like that? Why were they so determined to find out what was wrong with him? _He_ didn't even know what was affecting him! They should just leave him alone and let him work it out for himself; that was how he always managed to find the solution to his problems.

Sherlock shot two more bullets before taking his leave. Lestrade ruined his fun with that irritating (not to mention dull) conversation. Maybe he should just return to Baker Street and work on some experiments; making the flat explode might be the relief he needed.

* * *

The consulting detective walked into 221B and was greeted by clanging noises coming from Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Thinking that this was a bad day for crooks to be robbing his landlady Sherlock made his way to kitchen only to find Mrs Hudson watching a man who had his head deeply buried underneath the sink. Tools were strewn all over, leaving the consulting detective to deduce that the kitchen plumbing had backed up again.

"Trouble with the pipes, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock said amusedly, leaning against the threshold.

"The bloody thing got all clogged up again!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, looking disheartened. "John here thinks I should get a whole new set of pipes."

"You really should, Mrs Hudson," came John's voice from underneath the sink.

"John? Is that really you under there?" Sherlock asked incredulously as he approached them and bent over to see if he could get a view of his friend's face.

"Well, it's certainly not Anderson, is it?"

"Very funny. Since when do you know how to work the plumbing?"

"For a while now. I didn't want Mrs Hudson spending thousands of pounds on a contractor every few weeks so I decided to learn a thing or two in order to be able to help her. Although I think this time the plumbing has finally gone to a place where it's beyond anyone's help."

"Let me take a look."

Sherlock got on all fours and crawled underneath the sink as John shifted to the side in order to make room for him. It was little wonder why the pipes were malfunctioning: they were old and falling apart. The consulting detective was surprised they managed to last this long.

"We'll need to call a plumber and get him to replace the whole system," Sherlock declared, as John nodded his agreement. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Your sink needs to be revamped, I'm afraid," he added loudly.

"I thought as much," he heard Mrs Hudson say glumly. "I'll go call a handyman."

"When did you ever find the time to learn about pipes and drainage systems?" Sherlock asked as the landlady left the kitchen.

"Well, I've got to find _something_ to do with my time while you're off on a criminal scavenger hunt and you leave me by myself in our flat," John replied, tightening a bolt.

"A criminal scavenger hunt. I've never heard anyone put it quite that way before," Sherlock said, chuckling softly.

"You can laugh but that's what it is. We hunt down criminals that are hidden from plain view."

"That severely undermines the career of every Scotland Yarder."

"Oh, they don't need me for that; they already have you."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at that remark and John followed suit. The mirth was short-lived, however, when Sherlock abruptly realized how close his face was to John's as they lay there in the cramped space. The doctor seemed to notice that fact, too, when he stopped laughing and widened his eyes a little. After looking at each other in the eye for a moment John slowly began to lean forward, seemingly unconsciously, and Sherlock mimicked him, his body acting on its own accord like it was the most natural thing in the world in that moment.

"I've called the plumber but he won't be coming in until tomorrow. Mind I use your kitchen to cook dinner tonight, boys?"

Sherlock hastily pulled away and John gave a violent start that resulted in him hitting his head against the inside of the countertop. A string of colorful profanity left the doctor's mouth as both he and the consulting detective pulled themselves out from underneath the sink, and found a shocked Mrs Hudson staring at them.

"_John!_ No such language under my roof, if you please!" she cried.

"Good to know that you have your priorities sorted out, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said clinically. He looked over at John, who was rubbing the top of his head. "Nothing cracked open, I hope?"

"I don't think so," John replied, looking at his hand. "There's no blood so that's a good sign. Sorry, Mrs Hudson."

"It's quite all right, dear. Let me fetch you some ice for that poor head of yours," Mrs Hudson said with a consoling smile.

She turned her back on them and went digging into the freezer. Sherlock met John's eye and the latter turned crimson before hastily looking away. The consulting detective felt awkward and even more unsure of himself than he had ever felt in his life. Things had been nothing but bizarre for the last two days and his attempts to return to normalcy were failing him; even John couldn't look him in the eye. There had to be a logical explanation for what was happening but Sherlock was finding that his deductive reasoning wasn't working as it should.

"Here you are, dear," Mrs Hudson said kindly, giving John a small bag of ice. "That should help with the pain."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John said gratefully, placing the bag on his head and wincing at its cold touch.

"Now that's settled," Sherlock said agitatedly, causing Mrs Hudson and John to look at him, "I'll just go up to the flat. Come upstairs whenever you feel ready, John."

"Sherlock, I –" John began to say but Sherlock waved his protest aside.

"Concentrate on that bump on your head, John," Sherlock said, giving his friend a wavering smile. "I'll see you later."

Before either John or Mrs Hudson could say more, Sherlock left the kitchen and raced upstairs. He entered the flat and threw his long coat away from him, not caring where it landed. He sank on the couch and took his head in his hands, the full reality of that small moment underneath the kitchen sink. They were about to _kiss_, and Sherlock had wanted it. What was happening to him? Last week, he would have said he believed the idea kissing someone to be incredibly idiotic; now he found himself unwillingly reconsidering his position. All because of that first dream… _That dream be damned!_ Sherlock thought furiously. In reality, it was the dream that was damning _him_. It did not take a genius to realize that the dream was winning every single battle, but the consulting detective was determined to win the war.

* * *

Sherlock woke to a hot and stuffy room that night. A light sheen of sweat covered his body and he discovered that he had thrown off his blankets at some point in his slumber. Wondering why the heat was at maximum – the night was cool but it wasn't _that_ cold – Sherlock groggily made his way out of his room and into the sitting room, where he found John standing by an open window with a steaming cup of tea without a shirt on. The consulting detective paused in his tracks and tried his hardest to not admire his friend's well built upper body that was illuminated by the light of the moon. The task was proving to be quite difficult.

John glanced sideways and fully turned towards the consulting detective upon sight of him. Sherlock straightened his spine and approached the doctor, trying to appear as annoyed as he could be.

"Can you please explain to me why it's so bloody hot in here?" Sherlock said.

"Mrs Hudson was freezing downstairs so she fired up the heating system. I think she forgot that heat goes _up_," John replied, sipping his tea.

"Did you try to change the thermostat's setting? She's killing us up here!"

"I did, but you know we're not allowed to touch it since you used it to figure out how odors become intensified by heat. The whole building was unfit to live in for weeks."

"It was for the sake of science. Why do you lot always have trouble understanding the importance of scientific discoveries?"

"I understand it perfectly, Sherlock, but most people don't appreciate having their living space become a violation of Health and Safety."

"Speak for yourself. I find it's more fun to break the rules."

"Says the man who defends the law."

"The law and boarding conditions are two separate things. Do pay attention, John."

The doctor shook his head and looked out the window. Sherlock did the same, and admired the scenery. London, as much as it was a very busy city, it was the picture of tranquility in the late hours of the night. Not a single soul was out wandering the streets and all public places had closed for the night. It was one of the rare times Sherlock appreciated peace and quiet for all its worth.

The consulting detective felt his friend's eyes on him, and instantly knew that something was on the doctor's mind.

"For God's sake, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "If you have something to say just come right out and say it!"

"Well, i-it's about what happened down in our landlady's kitchen," John said hesitantly.

_Oh_, Sherlock thought, feeling his heart rate increase a little at the memory. He should have known John would want to talk about it. Why couldn't he just leave things alone?

"_Nothing_ happened, John. Stop worrying needlessly," Sherlock replied.

"But something was about to happen, and we both know it," John said sheepishly. "I just wanted to make sure that we're okay."

"I don't know if you've noticed, John, but I tend to let people know when I'm not okay with them. Just ask Donovan and Anderson."

John didn't look entirely convinced. "I suppose you're right. But are you sure that –?" he continued uncertainly.

He didn't know how it happened, but Sherlock felt himself grow a little bolder. He approached his friend and delicately placed a hand on his shoulder. The bare skin felt smooth under his touch and Sherlock found himself wanting to slide his hand down John's arm and just feel the muscles underneath. He gave himself a mental slap in the face; inappropriate thoughts were not welcome, not now and not ever.

"I'm quite certain," Sherlock whispered gently. "Does this look like the gesture of an uncomfortable man?"

John visibly relaxed and he smiled at Sherlock. The consulting detective nodded before biding his friend goodnight and returning to his room. He had partially lied to John: he _was_ feeling uncomfortable, but not in the way his friend was insinuating. What made Sherlock uneasy was that even though he still didn't know what was happening to him, he managed to make an important deduction: deep down, he was enjoying these strange feelings. He _liked_ touching John's bare shoulder; he _liked_ when John tried to close the gap between them when they were lying underneath the sink; he _liked_ that kiss John gave him in his dream (both of them, actually) among other things. These feelings weren't bad per se, but Sherlock hated anything that made no sense. These emotions had no origins, for God's sake! They literally appeared from out of nowhere.

Sherlock went back to bed. Maybe there was a monograph on the matter somewhere in this world. Until he could find it, he would have to be _very_ patient.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was returning to Baker Street the following morning after a brisk walk. Mrs Hudson was visiting some friends for the day and John had remained behind in their flat, claiming he didn't feel like going out. Which was just as well, all things considered. Who knew what would have happened if they had been alone together.

He reached 221B, stepped inside and immediately felt something was wrong. He stealthily climbed the stairs, avoiding all the areas that creaked, and discovered that the door to his flat had been kicked open. Sherlock rushed inside and found two menacing-looking men that he had never seen before standing in the sitting room. Between them, sitting tied to a chair, was John. Sherlock noticed with horror that his friend was not moving.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" the bulkier of the two said.

The words almost didn't register with the consulting detective but he still gave the two men his iciest, most threatening glare. Despite his fury, Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that bruises were blossoming on both men's faces, meaning that John had put up quite a fight before being overpowered.

"That's me," Sherlock said frostily. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your brother Mycroft would know who we are," the slimmer man replied. "Why don't you ask him?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. What top secret government matter did Mycroft get involved in _this_ time? And why did it include him? Leave it to Mycroft to make his younger brother's life a misery.

"We're just here to send your dear brother a message. We want to tell him to keep out of our affairs or we will _make_ him mind his own business," the first man said, cracking his knuckles.

"So you decided to threaten the welfare of one of his relatives? How dull," Sherlock said. "Why not just attack his government facility?"

"Too much security. Besides, wouldn't it send a stronger message to come after someone he cares about?"

"I hate to break it to you imbeciles, but Mycroft and I aren't that close. Oh, and just a small warning: it would be easier to move Big Ben than to do away with me."

"Ha! Do you honestly think I believe that? Your boyfriend here has more bulk than you and I took care of him!"

_Thank you for telling me which one of you did it_, Sherlock thought, his fury reaching new heights. To prove his earlier point he approached the fireplace, grabbed the fire poker and with some effort bent it in half. The two men stared at him in amazement.

"_Now_ do you believe me?" Sherlock asked, waving the poker in front of them.

"Why, you –!" the second man snarled angrily. He lunged at Sherlock, who gracefully moved out of the way and shoved him hard with his foot. The man lost his footing and crashed head first into the fireplace. He went limp, indicating that the impact had knocked him out, and the consulting detective rounded on his other opponent.

"Foolishness gets you nowhere," Sherlock said in a dangerously calm voice.

"He always was a hothead," his enemy acknowledged casually, shrugging. "If you want something done right you've got to do it yourself."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right here, right now," Sherlock said as the man took a step towards him.

"A life sentence in prison?" the man laughed.

"Not good enough," Sherlock replied and he lunged forward, gathering all the strength he could muster.

* * *

The ambulances and police cruisers finally left Baker Street by noon. Mrs Turner, the next door neighbor, had heard the racket and called Scotland Yard. Lestrade arrived with his men and saw one man lying unconscious in the fireplace and the other being thrown out of a window by Sherlock. Lestrade restrained the consulting detective while he ordered half his men to deal with the man in the fireplace and the rest to take care of the now very broken accomplice. The detective inspector, once he felt it was safe to release his charge, asked the consulting detective what had triggered this bout of madness. Sherlock refused to answer, but Lestrade saw John sitting senseless and bound to a chair and understood everything. The detective inspector patted his friend on the shoulder and assured him that those men weren't going to go unpunished, and also reminded him that he was always available to talk. Sherlock hadn't fully comprehended what he meant by that but he didn't care; John needed him.

Sherlock undid John's bonds and caught him as he limply slid off the chair. The consulting detective half-carried, half-dragged his friend to the couch and gently laid him on it. What was he supposed to do now? John was the doctor: _he_ knew about these sorts of things better than he did. Sherlock assumed all he could do was wait for him to wake up.

Two hours passed and John still lay motionlessly on the couch. Sherlock had cleaned his wounds (damn bastard had left a couple of scratches on his face) and simply sat in front of his friend, waiting for the slightest movements to occur. But they weren't happening. John was breathing, Sherlock could see that, but his breaths were shallow. The consulting detective was fighting off the panic that was trying to gnaw at his insides. What if John didn't come back around? Sherlock didn't know what he would do without his blogger.

His vision suddenly blurred and Sherlock blinked in confusion, feeling something roll down his cheeks. He reached a hand to his face and felt moisture underneath his fingertips. The consulting detective widened his eyes: he was _crying_? When was the last time he had done that? He glanced at John. He was the one causing these tears, Sherlock was certain. There was just something about the doctor that brought out sides the consulting detective never knew he possessed. These sides weren't bad, but Sherlock wasn't ready to call them good either.

He extended a nervous hand and took hold of John's. It was a bit of an awkward gesture in Sherlock's opinion but he had seen other people do this and figured it was the right thing to do. John's hand was warm and a comfort to the consulting detective: it soothed the panic and slowed down his thoughts. Sherlock stared out the window and kept his hand over John's, trying to deduce what his brother could have possibly done that had led to this. One thing was for certain: Mycroft was going to pay for what happened.

Something tightened around his hand and the consulting detective sharply turned his head towards it. John had laced his fingers around his and held a firm grip on Sherlock's hand. Hope flared within the consulting detective as he watched attentively for any more signs of life from his friend. His patience was rewarded: John slowly opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a weak smile.

"Sherlock…" John whispered.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, relieved. "Are you all right?"

"I will be." John carefully looked around. "What happened to those thugs?"

"Lestrade took them away."

"You gave them a thrashing, didn't you? Just like when Mrs Hudson got attacked?"

"Of course I did. Well, the first idiot practically knocked himself out; I only helped a little." John chuckled softly and Sherlock smiled. "As for the other, I beat him to a pulp and threw him out the window."

"You didn't throw him on our landlady's bins, did you?" John said mockingly, feigning horror.

"I didn't see where he landed. Judging by the noises he made, it sounded like he fell on something other than the pavement," Sherlock replied carelessly, shrugging.

"Why did they come here? Did we even know them?"

"They came after me."

"I remember that they asked for you. But why?"

"Mycroft has been meddling in their affairs and they wanted to deliver a message by disfiguring me."

"They clearly haven't been reading my blog. If they had, they would have known you wouldn't tolerate their intrusion."

"They also would've known that I don't take harming my friends very lightly either."

John smiled warmly at him. "I know," he said appreciatively, squeezing Sherlock's hand affectionately. "Thank you for defending me."

Sherlock felt his eyes sting a little and he hastily stood up, freeing his hand from John's. The doctor looked at him in mild surprise.

"I'll go make you some tea," Sherlock mumbled.

"Do you even know _how_?" John asked as Sherlock made his way to the kitchen. The consulting detective couldn't tell if his friend was joking or not.

"Really, John?"

"I've never seen you work a kettle before. You can't blame me for asking."

Sherlock wordlessly continued his way into the small kitchen. He pressed his hands against the counter and hung his head. He had been close to crying again when John had thanked him. The relief of seeing his friend alive and well (albeit weak) was overwhelming. John's life had been endangered before but Sherlock noticed a different reaction on his part: the previous times he had just been happy that his friend was all right; now, he could have almost cried tears of happiness – almost. The singularity of today's reaction was unlike anything he had experienced.

Sherlock hated to admit to it, but he needed help. He was clearly dealing with something that was beyond his knowledge, and whatever that something was it was winning (he had shed _tears_, thank you very much). But who could Sherlock turn to? Who would know what was happening to him, and would be willing to help him? John, under normal circumstances, would have been the main choice but since he was the cause of all this, Sherlock had no intention in sharing anything with him. Mrs Hudson? She would fuss over this too much: she'd take out the tea and the scones and ask for all the details. No, Sherlock needed someone who wouldn't ask too many questions.

_It's none of my business unless you choose to include me, which you can if you want to._

Lestrade's words rang in the consulting detective's mind like an echo. So _that_ was what Lestrade had meant when he had said he was still available to talk; maybe he knew what was going on. Sherlock didn't like the idea of going to a Scotland Yarder for help – or just the idea of asking for help in general – but he was slowly becoming desperate. He was finding no solutions: he had spent all of last night looking up illnesses and mental disorders, both on the Internet and in his library, but nothing matched the mysterious symptoms he had been experiencing. Sherlock doubted Lestrade out of all people could help him, but, since he had nothing to lose, it might be worth a shot.

As he placed the kettle on the stove, the consulting detective made up his mind: he was going to ask Lestrade for a private word after the press conference. It was taking place the day after tomorrow, so it would give the consulting detective enough time to formulate his questions (and to give Mycroft a piece of his mind). If no enlightenment came out of this, Sherlock might have to leave the country just to get these feelings to stop. It was a last resort, but he was willing to try anything at this point.


	7. Chapter 7

The press conference was, as Sherlock predicted, a boring affair. The endless amount of questions (couldn't _any_ of these reporters deduce what happened? It was all perfectly obvious), the continuous flashing of the cameras, the large amount of clueless people. Sherlock sat between John and Lestrade, counting the minutes and recalling the memory of his encounter with Mycroft the day before. A nice shouting match had taken place at the Diogenes Club between the two brothers: Mycroft argued the importance of national security while Sherlock demanded that Mycroft would stop involving himself into affairs that threatened the safety of everyone him _and _that he should get a desk job. Anthea, who had been sitting in a corner playing with her phone, lazily pointed out that Sherlock did the same. The consulting detective had given her a withering look and stated that his enemies came after him directly, save perhaps Moriarty. Mycroft did not dispute the point, and tried once again to make his brother see his point of view. Sherlock had refused to listen and left the Diogenes Club in a worse mood than the one he had been in prior entering it.

John and Lestrade didn't appear to be having the time of their lives either. Lestrade answered every question in a professional manner but Sherlock noticed the continuous surreptitious glances the detective inspector kept giving at the clock. John seemed to waver in and out of the present, staring into space for a few seconds before pulling himself out of his reverie every so often. Sherlock wondered if his friend was thinking about that date he had last week and instantly felt irritated. John never mentioned if he was planning on seeing that woman again (what was her name? John had dated so many women that even Sherlock was having a hard time keeping up with who was who) but he didn't say he wasn't meeting with her again either. The consulting detective resisted the urge to kick his friend when he saw him zone out again.

After what felt like an eternity, the press conference finally ended. As the reporters filed out of the room Sherlock watched Lestrade enter a discussion with Donovan and Anderson. All he had to do was ask the detective inspector for a quick word, that was all; it was nothing out of the ordinary. But why was it so hard this time? The consulting detective almost desired to abort the whole idea. He knew he had to go through with this, however: this could be his chance to uncover what had been happening to him all week.

"Sherlock? Shall we go?" John asked.

"You go on ahead; I'll catch up with you later," Sherlock replied, never taking his eyes off Lestrade.

John raised an eyebrow but he said nothing else. He nodded and left the room. Sherlock approached Lestrade, who was having an argument with his sergeants.

"I don't care what you think. Sherlock's the one who solved the case therefore the credit goes to him," Lestrade was saying irritably. "Trust me, I would rather have the credit go to us but this is how it is. And I'm sick of having this argument with you two every single damn time!"

"He's making us look like incompetent idiots!" Anderson hissed angrily.

"Oh, you don't need me for that, Anderson," Sherlock said, unruffled. "You give off that impression all by yourselves."

"What do you want, freak? Can't you see we're busy?" Donovan asked harshly.

"And can't _you_ see that Lestrade is right and doesn't want to have this conversation?" Sherlock replied.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Lestrade said calmly. "Sally, Anderson, that's enough. Get back to work."

"But, Greg –" Anderson began.

"That's an order, sergeants!" Lestrade yelled, causing several heads to turn. The detective inspector sheepishly waved at the others before glaring at Donovan and Anderson until they obeyed him. They walked past Sherlock, who didn't even spare them a glance. He looked at Lestrade expectantly, who was gathering his things.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Lestrade said evenly. "Do you need anything?"

"A word, Lestrade," Sherlock replied after a brief moment of hesitation. "A private one."

"My office's open."

"I don't want to talk here. Can you excuse yourself?""

"_Now?_"

"Yes, now!"

"Hmm, I guess that's manageable. Let me put all this back in my office and meet me by the front doors. I shouldn't be too long."

Sherlock nodded and took his leave. Hopefully, Lestrade would not take his sweet time putting away one or two belonging.

The detective inspector was as good as his word. He joined Sherlock by the main entrance in less than ten minutes. He eyed the consulting detective wearily.

"Want to go to Hyde Park? We can sit by the Princess Diana Memorial without being disturbed," Lestrade suggested.

"That's seems to be acceptable," Sherlock concurred.

Lestrade nodded and they went outside together, where the sun was shining in the bright blue sky. Sherlock summoned a taxi and they climbed inside before being whisked away from Scotland Yard.

"What do you want to talk about?" Lestrade asked. The consulting detective thought he heard some concern in the detective inspector's voice.

"Not here," Sherlock replied stiffly. Lestrade did not pursue the subject.

They were dropped off at Hyde Park and the duo slowly made their way towards the Princess Diana Memorial. The wait was tormenting Sherlock on a variety of levels: he was torn between remaining true to his commitment and running away. But he had promised himself to see this through; he needed answers, and escaping wasn't going to provide them.

They reached the memorial and sat by the edge side by side like two statues, listening to the water running behind them. Lestrade was eyeing Sherlock curiously and the consulting detective was trying to gather the courage that suddenly left him.

"We're here, Sherlock," Lestrade said evenly. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Well…" Sherlock replied, wringing his hands a little. Damn his nerves! This was why he disliked human emotions: they always got in the way of the task at hand.

"Sherlock, I don't have all afternoon."

"I'm aware of that. It's just that I can't get the damn words out!"

"Are you nervous? This is more serious than I thought. Sherlock, I won't judge you regardless of what you tell me. You know that, right?"

"Believe me, Lestrade, if I thought otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"So what's bothering you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to go through with this, not matter how much he didn't want to.

"Remember when John called you the other day because he was concerned about me?" Sherlock asked, somewhat meekly.

"I do. He said you have been behaving a little oddly. I'm guessing that whatever you wish to tell me has something to do with that?" Lestrade replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-Yes. You see, Lestrade, the reason I've been acting strange all week is because I've been _feeling_ strange," Sherlock admitted reluctantly.

"How so?" Lestrade asked with interest.

"That's just it! I can't identify it! All I am certain is that these bizarre feelings have something to do with John!" Sherlock blurted out, revealing a bit more than he had intended to.

Lestrade's eyes widened and Sherlock caught a glint of difficultly suppressed glee in them. But whatever it was that was exciting the detective inspector, he was containing it quite well.

"You've been having some peculiar experiences where John is concerned. What happened?" Lestrade pressed on.

"I… had this dream – and you can forget about me telling you what it was!" Sherlock snapped harshly as Lestrade opened his mouth. "And ever since it's just been absolute madness."

"It can't be that bad."

"Trust me, it is."

"Come now, Sherlock. You act like whatever's occurring is the worst than the apocalypse. Just slowly tell me what this dream has brought on."

The consulting detective remained silent for a few seconds before continuing.

"All I can say about the dream is that John was in it. In fact, he's been in two of them. And the following of those dreams, things out of ordinary became a part of my everyday routine," he said, staring hard at the ground.

"I've understood _that_. Come on, Sherlock. Spit it out!" Lestrade said a little impatiently.

The detective inspector already knew that the core of the problem was John. Sherlock was aware that he had no other choice but the come clean.

"I always want to be near him. I always want to touch him and my skin feels like it's on fire whenever he touches me. If I look him in the eye for too long I have to long away even though in the past I could stare him down. All he has to do is enter the room and my heart beats so fast it becomes hard to breathe. Damn it, Lestrade!" Sherlock curled his hands into fists. "What's happening to me?"

Lestrade stared at him for a good five seconds before letting out a victorious cry. Sherlock openly goggled at him, wondering is the detective inspector had lost his mind.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, frowning, "what is there to celebrate?"

"I knew it!" Lestrade exclaimed cheerfully, grinning broadly. "I knew it! I knew it! _I knew it!_"

"Well, feel free to enlighten me any time now."

"Just let me relish this moment."

"_Lestrade!_ What's going on with me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Lestrade slung an arm around the consulting detective's shoulders."You, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are in love with Dr. John Watson."

"WHAT?" Sherlock yelled incredulously, springing away from Lestrade. "That's preposterous, Lestrade!"

"Keep your voice down. People are staring," Lestrade said, glancing around at the curious onlookers. "What do you mean by that? There's nothing wrong with being in love, Sherlock."

"I am NOT in love with John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It's just some madness that holds no origin whatsoever!"

"Love does not appear from out of nowhere!"

"How the bloody hell would you know?"

"You always say that I see but I do not observe. Well, I've been observing you for the last three years, Sherlock, and I've been honestly wondering when you two were going to get together. Your love for John just kept on accumulating, even if you weren't aware of it. You're almost a completely different person around John – almost. It's clear as day that he's the one you care the most about and that there's no one else you would rather spend time with. You've even soften a little, if you can believe that. I had my suspicions at first but now you've confirmed my hypothesis: you're in love with him, and I couldn't be happier for you."

"I can't be in love, Lestrade! Do you even _know _me?"

"I do, and maybe once I thought you were incapable of having emotions but time proved me wrong. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Might as well." Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. What Lestrade wanted to ask couldn't be any worse than the conversation they were having.

"Can you think clearly when he's standing too close? Do you get tongue-tied as well? Does he make you shiver out of pleasure? Does an electric current pass through you at the slightest brush of the hand? Is he the one person in your life whom you absolutely cannot imagine spending the rest of your life without?" Lestrade asked bracingly.

Sherlock widened his eyes a little and that seemed to give Lestrade his answer. The detective inspector grinned.

"It seems that I have rendered you speechless. That's a first," he said smugly.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, sitting next to Lestrade again. "Are you sure this is no mental issue?"

"Sherlock, there's nothing here that can be diagnosed by an expert. As long you keep fighting this, the more unbearable it'll be," Lestrade replied kindly. "Embrace your new feelings, and you'll be much happier."

"I can't," Sherlock whispered. "This scenario you've designed is just not plausible, Lestrade."

"I didn't expect you to accept my words straight away; you're just too damn stubborn for that." Sherlock fought down a smile despite himself. "But eventually the truth will hit you so hard that you can't ignore it. But I know you'll come around. I just hope it won't be too late by the time you do."

The consulting detective gave Lestrade a puzzled expression. What did he mean by that last sentence? Too late for what? This interview with the detective inspector was going nowhere in Sherlock's view. Lestrade seemed to forget that the consulting detective believed that something like love was a nuisance; it just got in the way of all that was important. There was no chance Sherlock had managed to let love find its way to him. Love was illogical, just like… just like everything he had been going through, Sherlock suddenly realized with a shock. He roughly shook his head. He was _not_ going to entertain any of Lestrade's ideas; not by a long shot.

"You are out of your mind, Lestrade," Sherlock said stiffly. "Completely and severely out of your mind."

"Maybe," Lestrade replied indifferently, "but I'm right. Go calm down and revisit this conversation with a cool head. Perhaps then you'll see reason."

"Like hell I will."

"Suit yourself. I have to get back to work. I take it you'll be taking a cab by yourself?"

The consulting detective gave no reply but Lestrade appeared to take his silence as an affirmation. He wished Sherlock a good day before strolling off, humming tunelessly. Sherlock watched him go, his frustration nowhere near abated. He should have known Lestrade would have found a way to romanticize the situation; he and John had that in common. A police officer was all about dealing with _facts_, and _not_ about making deductions based on fantastic ideas. That was one of the reasons why Sherlock had turned to Lestrade in the first place.

Sherlock released an exasperated sigh. He was tired of running around in circles; he was no closer to the end than before his conversation with Lestrade. One thing was for certain: Sherlock was not asking for help again. One fanciful suggestion was enough for a lifetime.


	8. Chapter 8

John was resting in the sitting room when Sherlock returned to 221B. His back was turned to the door, but the consulting detective suddenly felt his nerves react at full force. He roughly shook his head. It was his conversation with Lestrade that was making him react this way at the sight of his friend; it _had_ to be. Sherlock was still feeling a little unnerved by what he had been told. He was _not_ in love with John, and he refused believe otherwise. But he knew the doctor was affecting him in a way no one ever had. Even so, Lestrade's theory was still the most ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever heard.

"Oh. Hello, Sherlock. Have you been standing there long?"

The consulting detective pulled himself away from his thoughts and found John, who had turned around in his chair, watching him curiously. Sherlock felt self-conscious under his friend's gaze and he hastily busied himself with removing his coat and scarf.

"No, I've only just arrived," Sherlock replied, a little unevenly, as he threw his outdoor clothing over a nearby chair.

"You took your time," John commented.

"I had to talk with Lestrade," Sherlock said, verifying his text messages. There was one from Lestrade, received not long ago, that said 'Remember my last.' The consultant detective tensed a little before deleting the message.

"For three hours?" John raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were capable of holding up a conversation for that long."

"Very amusing. I admit I walked around London for a bit before spending fifty pounds on a taxi by making the driver take the long way back to Baker Street."

"Jesus, Sherlock. _Why?_"

"I had to clear my head. Didn't work."

"What did you and Lestrade talk about?"

There is was, the question Sherlock had been hoping John wouldn't ask. The question that, if answered honestly, would reveal what shouldn't be shared. The consulting detective was not about to share _that_ particular piece of information so he gave the answer that usually discouraged John from pursuing any subject.

"That's none of your business," Sherlock said, heading for his room.

His strategy didn't work. As he walked by John grabbed his wrist. An intense electric current passed through Sherlock, sending his heart pounding against his chest, and he froze in his tracks. He slowly looked at his friend, who was staring back with more determination than Sherlock had ever seen in him.

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Answer my question. _Properly._"

"Why?" was all Sherlock could say.

"I know that I promised that I wouldn't badger you anymore but you've been acting strange all week. Even Lestrade had reported to me that you weren't completely yourself at the academy the other day. For God's sake, Sherlock! Just please tell me what's wrong," John said vehemently.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but he soon discovered that his vocals had promptly failed him. He closed his mouth and shook his head instead. John gave him an exasperated expression before suddenly glancing down at the consulting detective's wrist. Sherlock felt him gently press two fingers on his wrist and immediately knew what the doctor was doing.

"Your pulse is incredibly high," John said, furrowing his brow. He looked at Sherlock. "You're either nervous or scared."

For a second time Sherlock shook his head. Without releasing the consulting detective's wrist, John stood on his feet. He took a step closer and it took all of Sherlock's self-control to not take a step back. John raised himself onto the tip of his toes and whispered in the consulting detective's ear.

"Please," John said softly. "Please tell me what's wrong."

His breath tickled Sherlock and he shivered in response. John was standing far too close: their chests were barely touching and the consulting detective could feel the heat radiating off his friend. Sherlock's mind was beginning to spin as his heart began to race so fast it became difficult to breathe. He couldn't think, he couldn't speak, he was feeling butterflies in his stomach. He couldn't look away from the eyes that were deeply looking into his own, nor could he easily resist the temptation to close the small gap between them. Sherlock's heart was saying one thing while his mind was screaming another, but his current state was preventing him from deciphering either message.

"I was down at the bakery shop and I thought I'd buy you boys a treat. How does a batch of chocolate chip cookies sound?"

If Sherlock had seen John move swiftly before, it was nothing compared to this: the doctor dropped his wrist like it had burned him and at an alarming speed he sat back down in his chair. Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway, carrying a white box tied with some string.

"Did I interrupt something? Were you two having a little domestic?" she asked, alternating her inquisitive gaze between the both of them.

"No, Mrs Hudson. Nothing of the sort," John replied with an impatient sigh. "Thanks for the cookies, by the way. I'm sure they'll be delicious."

"You're welcome, dear. I'll just put these in the kitchen," Mrs Hudson said, smiling. She paused to look at Sherlock. "You look a little more pale than usual, Sherlock. Is everything all right?"

The consulting detective felt John's eyes shift towards him at that question. His voice still not found, Sherlock simply shook his head before rushing off to his bedroom, leaving behind a both startled and confused landlady and flatmate. He slammed the door and let himself collapse on his bed, covering his face with his hands. It _couldn't_ be; it just couldn't! Sherlock knew he wasn't the best at reading emotions but how could he not see something as monumental as this? His deduction skills usually helped him see everything, but they had failed him in this case.

The worse part of it was that it meant admitting that Lestrade was _right_. That one moment in the sitting room had carried all the proof the detective inspector would have had needed to support his claim: Sherlock _was_ in love with John, and there was no possible way of claiming otherwise. What other explanation could there be? But the idea of being in love scared Sherlock a little. He was not interested in having his heart broken, which was the reason why he divorced himself from his emotions in the first place. He was very well aware that John would never hurt him on purpose but that didn't mean that he wouldn't, even if it was done inadvertently. Besides, John was known to be a lover of women; the chances that he returned Sherlock's affections were next to zero. And _that_, Sherlock discovered, was what pained the consulting detective the most.

Sherlock rolled onto his side. What was he to do? He didn't know how to handle this: it was too new, too unfamiliar. He supposed he would have to cope with it in whatever way he could. Now he only had to find out what that way _was._

* * *

Sherlock could not sleep that night no matter how hard he tried. He tossed and turned but rest would not come to him. His mind was still whirling with his recent discovery, causing him to be alert and uneasy. Memories of his dinner with John earlier that evening kept coming back as well: Sherlock had been very quiet and subdued during their meal and John had made another attempt to get him to reveal what was bothering him. The consulting detective had been unable to pronounce a single syllable in his friend's presence, which frustrated the both of them in two very different ways. John eventually gave up, and sulked as he finished his dinner. Sherlock would surreptitiously glance at him occasionally, reading the annoyance written on the doctor's face. The consulting detective kept his peace as he tried to eat despite the knot in his stomach.

He sighed and got out of bed, slipping his robe on. A cup of tea might be what he needed to help him get at least _some_ sleep. He would have to go down to Mrs Hudson's kitchen, however: she had his favorite kind of tea stored there. Besides, he wasn't in the mood to have John find him alone in their sitting room. Sherlock noiselessly exited his room and crossed the flat, making his way downstairs.

There was a small light coming from the kitchen and Sherlock saw Mrs Hudson sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea of her own. She greeted the consulting detective with a warm smile and she pointed at the kettle sitting on the stove.

"The water's still very hot, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said cheerfully. "Help yourself and come sit with me. I had a feeling you would be up as well."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied, eyeing her warily as he took a mug out of the cupboard and prepared his beverage. His landlady was up to something: it was written in her composure.

"Now, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said as the consulting detective sat with her, "are you going to tell me how long it's been since you've finally known that you're in love with John or will I be forced to drag it out of you?"

Sherlock choked on his tea as he was taking his first sip. Fighting off a brutal coughing fit, he stared at his landlady through streaming eyes.

"W-_What?_" Sherlock said breathlessly.

"My dear boy, did you honestly think that I wouldn't notice? You've been giving off small signs here and there over the years and this week alone has confirmed my suspicions."

"Have you been talking to Lestrade?"

"No, why?"

"Never mind."

"Sherlock, there's no use in trying to hide something I already know. I've been watching you all week and I can tell that you don't know how to handle this. You're both confused and scared, and that's perfectly all right. It's a normal reaction, especially for someone who usually prefers to keep his feelings locked up." She placed a hand on top of his in a reassuring manner.

His landlady was more observant than he had given her credit for, Sherlock thought. She reminded him of his mother, who could dig out any secret no matter how hard he tried to hide them. At least this time he was in no danger of being punished for trying to conceal the results of an experiment gone wrong.

"I've only found out a few hours ago," Sherlock reluctantly admitted, knowing full well there was no point in lying. "The rest of the week was just me trying to figure out what was happening to me. I don't get surprised easily but that was probably the biggest shock of my life. I didn't ask for this, Mrs Hudson! I didn't _want_ to be in love with anyone! How did love managed to find its way inside me?"

"Love works in mysterious ways, Sherlock. It likes to sneak upon us when we're least expecting it," Mrs Hudson said calmly, sipping her tea.

"I expect _everything_! How did I get so easily blindsided by this?"

"You expect everything that contains cold, hard logic. Love holds no logic; it's all about emotions, something that you never were adept with. Since you are always determined to detach yourself from your emotions, you were unable to see love make itself a home in your heart. It's not as bad as you think it is, Sherlock."

"But this goes against everything that I've ever believed in."

"Surely that's not the case? You couldn't possibly have always thought that love is a nuisance?"

"Since a young age, yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock suddenly found his tea fascinating and he stared at the rising vapor with hard eyes. That answer required telling about his past and the consulting detective had no interest in sharing that piece of information with his landlady. He hated revisiting old memories; they were better off left untouched.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mrs Hudson appeared to gather all the data she needed from his silence.

"You've been hurt before," she stated. It wasn't even a question.

The consulting detective spared her a fleeting glance before whispering a very soft, nearly inaudible: "Yes."

Mrs Hudson's chair scraped the floor as she stood up. She approached Sherlock and took the top part of him in her arms. Sherlock did not return the embrace but he let her hold him, his head resting against her chest. The slow rhythm of her breathing was soothing.

"You poor dear," Mrs Hudson said consolingly, stroking his curls. "So you've been in love before and it ended badly?"

"No," Sherlock replied, feeling her comfort break through his defenses. "I've never been in love prior to this."

"Then what happened?" Mrs Hudson asked gently.

His defenses suddenly returned; Sherlock slowly extracted himself from his landlady's loving arms and stared at the wall opposite.

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock said brusquely.

Tender fingers took his chin and they carefully turned his head so that his eyes were locked with Mrs Hudson's caring ones.

"Hiding it will only make it worse," she said firmly yet kindly.

Maybe it was her kindness; maybe it was his being in love; maybe it was the whole damn situation altogether. Whatever it was, Sherlock heard the words come out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"It's nothing monumental, really. People whom I thought were my friends – or at least respected me for who I was – turned out to be the exact opposite. They pretended to like me when in reality they hated me," Sherlock said unhappily.

"Oh dear. They were like a closeted Anderson or Donovan, weren't they?" Mrs Hudson said sympathetically. The consulting detective nodded.

"At least Anderson and Donovan are honest about hating me; those people did it behind my back. It had hurt terribly when I discovered their secret; I felt alone. It was then that I made the decision to never fall in love. If it had pained me that much when those people were just my friends, imagine how much it would have hurt if it had been someone I loved," Sherlock explained. "That was my reasoning then and it still is right at this moment. That's why I don't want to be in love, Mrs Hudson. Feeling that kind of pain once was more than enough."

"Sherlock, you can't let one sour experience affect the rest of your life. You are now surrounded by people who never _dream_ of hurting you. We love you for who you are, especially John. In fact, wasn't he the one who was impressed when you first applied your deduction skills on him?"

"Yes…"

"And didn't he immediately agree to move in with you despite your singular qualities?"

"Y-Yes…"

"And hasn't he _stayed_ with you through thick and thin during the last five years? Isn't he still your flatmate and friend despite all the times you've angered and frustrated him? Doesn't he still come running whenever you call?"

"Yes!"

"See, Sherlock? Not everyone is as bad as those people were. John is the perfect example of that. There's also me, but I'm not the one you're in love with now, am I?" Mrs Hudson winked at Sherlock, who felt his cheeks burn a little. "We'll keep our focus on John. You know perfectly well he would never hurt you."

She was more than right; Sherlock knew that all too well. However, there was something else that kept nagging the consulting detective in the back of his mind.

'I know," Sherlock said meekly. "But that's not the problem. John loves women. You should know: he's had several girlfriends."

"I understand that. But looks can be deceiving, Sherlock. You out of all people should be aware of that," Mrs Hudson replied.

"He's always moaning about how the public gets the wrong idea about me and him," Sherlock argued.

"Again, _looks can be deceiving_," Mrs Hudson countered. "Take a good look at your friend; you might find things that you have missed previously."

"I'm quite certain that I've deduced everything about John, Mrs Hudson."

"I'm not so sure, and I believe you never will at this rate. Why not tell him how you feel? That might get you to understand what I'm talking about."

Sherlock nearly dropped his mug at her suggestion. _Tell_ John about how he felt? Had she gone mad? If there was any way to ruin his friendship with John, it was that one.

"I _can't_ tell him how I feel! Do you have any idea what that could _do_?" Sherlock exclaimed loudly.

"Shh, John's still sleeping upstairs. The last thing we want is him walking in on us," Mrs Hudson said quietly. Sherlock nodded. "I _do_ know the risks, Sherlock, but I don't think they'll occur. I think you should tell him but the choice is yours. Do what you believe feels right."

"Fine, whatever."

"Good. Now finish what's left of your tea and go off to bed. You'll need to sleep on this."

"Yes, Mrs Hudson."

She smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock's head before washing her tea cup and exiting the kitchen. The consulting detective watched her go as he drained the remnants of his lukewarm tea. That talk with his landlady had been the most helpful thing he had done, even if he hadn't been attempting to have a heart to heart with her. The only thing that he was on the fence about was her idea of admitting to John that he was in love with him. If, hypothetically, John _did_ return his feelings then Sherlock supposed he would be very happy. But if John _didn't_ feel the same way (and Sherlock was absolutely certain that this was the reality of things), their friendship could fall to pieces, and the consulting detective wasn't sure if he could survive that. No, he definitely couldn't.

Sherlock stood up and cleaned his mug. He decided it was best to keep his secret from John. The last thing he needed was to lose the one person whom he could not live without.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days passed since that conversation with Mrs Hudson. Both she and Sherlock had remained silent about their exchange (save for Mrs Hudson every now and then trying to convince Sherlock to admit his feelings) but the consulting detective was able to see that John had sensed something had transpired between the two of them. The doctor would glance at them from time to time with a curious expression without saying a word. If Mrs Hudson caught him she would simply give him a mysterious smile before continuing with her chores. If Sherlock caught John's eye he would hastily look away. He knew he was probably giving further cause for his friend to be suspicious but he didn't care. It was best to having John question what was going on rather than have him know.

Sherlock was gazing through his microscope when John came in with the shopping. The consulting detective barely spared the doctor a glance as he struggled to get all the bags into the kitchen. Sherlock was able to hear his friend utter a few choicely curse words under his breath but it did nothing to motivate him to help.

"It's okay. I've got it," John said sarcastically, causing a commotion as he bumped into the walls.

"I have faith in you," Sherlock said absently as he compared bloodstains.

"Of course you do. That's why you _never_ help," John replied irritably.

"What I'm doing is for science. I can't just stop whenever you like."

"You don't want to hear the answer I have to that."

"Have you learned nothing of me? I _always_ know what you're thinking."

Sherlock heard John let out an exasperated groan before rummaging in the bags he had placed on the floor. The consulting detective surreptitiously watched the doctor as he took items out and put them away. John's presence was a calming force; Sherlock noticed that he now hated it whenever he was left alone in the flat, and he strongly suspected that his newly-found feelings for his friend were responsible for that. Being in love was doing all sorts of things: some good, some bad (in Sherlock's opinion) and some strange. He didn't understand half of those things but he had soon learned it was best not to question anything.

"Sherlock, if I find another severed head in that fridge I might scream," John said, pausing in front of the fridge with his hand on the handle.

"You might find a pair of feet," Sherlock answered casually. John hastily opened the door and closed it just as fast. "Hands," he said. "It's a pair of _hands_."

"Ah, yes. I wanted to research why there is not one fingerprint alike."

"So those hands aren't from the same body?"

"Correct."

John shook his head. "I've never seen a kitchen quite like ours," he commented.

Sherlock turned his head towards him. "Is it supposed to be a certain way?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, kind of. I mean, everyone else uses a kitchen to prepare food, not as a science lab," John replied. "I'm aware the concept of eating is foreign to you, Sherlock, but even you should know that."

"Just because I don't eat when _you_ want me to eat doesn't mean that nourishment is a foreign concept to me."

"Pretty sure is it."

They glared at each other until John sighed heavily and continued to put away the shopping. Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his microscope only to realize that the bloodstains had somehow smudged. He looked at his fingers and noticed that the tips were red. When and how did he graze his slide? Sherlock huffed impatiently before standing up and heading for the sink. That was something else he noticed about his being in love: he became distracted easily whenever John was around. The consulting detective would spend more time focusing on his friend than on the task at hand. It had irritated him at first but now it had quelled to a mild annoyance. Being in love did not mean that any carelessness on his part was accepted.

"Oh, before I forget to tell you, I have a date tonight," John suddenly said as Sherlock washed his hands.

The consulting detective froze. "R-Really?" he stammered, staring at the wall before him.

"Yeah, so don't wait up for me or anything," John replied, putting the milk in the fridge.

"I won't. Where did you meet her this time?" Sherlock asked, keeping his gaze averted.

"I went to a pub with Mike last week and she happened to be there. Her name's Sally," John said cheerfully.

Sherlock was giving John such a look of extreme incredulity that the doctor hastily added, "Not Sally Donovan! Another Sally. I would never even _dream_ of going for Donovan."

"Don't do that to me!"

"Sorry! I almost sent you into cardiac arrest, didn't I?"

"You're a doctor. I thought you took an oath to not kill your patients?"

"You're not my patient so I think I'm safe."

"Gee, _thanks._"

John smirked before returning his attention to the shopping bags. The shock caused by the idea of John dating Donovan now fading, Sherlock felt a pang at the thought of John going on a date in general. It hurt, it truly did. What did those women have that Sherlock didn't? The answer came to him quickly: warmth, compassion, emotions. Sherlock was capable of those things, but he had difficulty manifesting them; probably because he didn't know _how_. John obviously craved someone who did. How could Sherlock compete with that?

"What are you going to do while I'm out?" John asked lightly.

"Uh, I don't know," Sherlock replied, returning to his seat.

"You _don't know_? Since when?"

"Since now."

"That's not like you. Are you feeling okay?"

_No, I'm not_, Sherlock thought miserably. But he tried to fake an exasperated smile all the same. "I'm _fine_, John. Stop worrying so much."

"You give me cause to worry. Well, if you say you're fine then I guess you are." John looked at his watch. "It's getting late. I'd better go prepare for my date."

"Right. You go do that."

John raised an eyebrow before making his way out of the kitchen. Sherlock cursed himself for behaving so compliantly; that was not how he usually did things. The last thing he needed was for John to be suspicious and start digging around again. But Sherlock couldn't help it: he hated this feeling, this feeling of being crushed emotionally. Why couldn't John just stay home with him? He would be better off here than with girlfriend number five hundred. Unable to concentrate on his experiment anymore, the consulting detective made his way towards the sitting room.

He was about to grab his violin when John appeared. The doctor looked very handsome in his suit, which made Sherlock feel no less unhappy. His friend paused before him and extended his arms, looking at him expectantly.

"Well? How do I look?" John asked.

Sherlock tried to come up with a cynical comment but could only manage to say, "Nice. You look nice."

John's eyebrows soared upwards. "Now I _know_ something's off. Are you feeling ill?" he said.

"No," Sherlock replied.

Still looking very skeptical, the doctor approached him and pressed a hand to the consulting detective's forehead. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at his friend's touch and butterflies erupted in his stomach. He hastily pulled his head back, trying to look irritated in the process.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said, a little unevenly.

"You don't feel hot," John said, frowning. "I'm trying to see if you have a fever. That might explain the slightly abnormal behavior."

"John, I repeat: you need to stop worrying so much."

"How can I when you're always giving me something to worry about? Anyway, I have to get going or I'll be late. I'll see you later, Sherlock."

The consulting detective didn't reply as his friend dashed out of the flat. As the door closed, Sherlock picked up his violin and positioned himself to play but he soon realized that he was in no mood to play at all. He set it back on a table, sat down in a chair, bent over and buried his face in his arms and knees. This was _not_ his ideal evening: alone in the flat while John was out on a date who was not _him_. Didn't people say that being in love with someone was a wonderful thing? It did not appear to him that way at the moment.

A hand suddenly gently brushed his curls and Sherlock abruptly looked up. Mrs Hudson was standing before him, gazing at him with a sympathetic smile. Sherlock didn't even hear her come in but he was glad to be in her company.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked softly.

The consulting detective shook his head, unable to speak. His landlady sat on the chair's arm and carefully pulled him towards her in an embrace. Sherlock permitted her hold him, letting her comfort wash over him.

"The second I saw John walk out that door all dressed up I knew I had to come find you. Everything will be all right, Sherlock. You'll see," Mrs Hudson said consolingly, rubbing his back.

"I _told_ you, Mrs Hudson. John likes women. This is an unrequited love; even I can see it," Sherlock replied, relaxing against her touch.

"Don't let the hurt put a blindfold over your eyes. I still think you are missing something crucial in John."

"Mrs Hudson, I'm the most observant person around here. How can I miss anything?"

"Emotions never were your forte. Remember that little incident with Molly at our Christmas party a few years back?"

"Please don't bring that up. I felt bad then and I still do. John's not a complex person, Mrs Hudson."

"But he has many layers just waiting to be uncovered."

Sherlock shook his head and Mrs Hudson sighed heavily. There was nothing about John he had overlooked. He knew everything about the man: the alcoholic and divorced sister, ex-army doctor who had served in Afghanistan, once had a psychosomatic limp, used to visit a therapist, his undying love for those jumpers. Everything that made John Watson the person he was. The consulting detective did not understand what his landlady was on about.

"If you are so certain that I'm missing something," Sherlock said, "why don't you just tell me what it is?"

"It's something you need to discover on your own. Trust me, Sherlock, this is important," Mrs Hudson said. "You are always saying that we see but do not observe. The tables have turned."

Sherlock was getting annoyed. If this one detail about his friend was so important then why didn't she just tell him what it was instead of making his life complicated? If there _was_ something different about John, he would have noticed it by now. Why was that so difficult for Mrs Hudson to understand?

"If you're not going to tell me then I won't be bothered," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Suit yourself. I think you're making quite a mistake that way," Mrs Hudson said, shrugging. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Tell him how you feel."

"For the last time, _no. _Quit badgering me!"

"I badger you for your own good. You need to believe me when I say that this would have a great impact on your relationship with John."

"Yeah, I'll lose him as a friend!"

"I wouldn't be so sure. If you want this situation to change, you need to tell him. I'll leave you with that to think about."

The consulting detective sulked silently as his landlady returned downstairs. He was _not_ making a mistake, nor was he telling John how he felt. Sherlock strongly doubted that Mrs Hudson knew any more than he did where John was concerned. The man was no enigma: he was the epitome of normalcy, which occasionally made Sherlock wonder why the doctor chose to remain with him. There was nothing to be missed. And to tell John that he was in love with him was probably the most ridiculous suggestion Mrs Hudson had made. How many times did he need to remind her about the risks? People called _him_ stubborn.

Sherlock sighed and picked up his violin again. Maybe some music would help keep his mind off of John. But as he glided his bow across the strings, Sherlock found himself pretending to be playing for his friend.

* * *

The sound of the door opening and closing was what roused Sherlock from his slumber. He looked around blearily and discovered that he had fallen asleep in his chair. His violin was sitting in his lap and the bow had fallen to the floor from his slacked grip. The consulting detective put the violin next to his chair and was about to get up when he saw John standing in front of him.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said. "What are you still doing up at this hour?"

"I fell asleep," Sherlock replied, rubbing an eye. "Why aren't you up in your room?"

"I was going to get a glass of water before bed," John said happily.

Sherlock noticed a lip-shaped mark on his friend's cheek and he instantly felt another pang. That was not a welcoming sight.

"I take it your date when well?" Sherlock said, keeping his expression unreadable.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," John replied. "She's very nice, that Sally."

"Are you planning on seeing her again?"

"Maybe. Tonight was fun."

"So there's a chance that you could end up really liking her?"

"I don't know that for sure but I guess so."

That was all Sherlock could take. He abruptly got to his feet and told his friend goodnight before hurrying to his room. He managed to keep himself from slamming the door shut and slowly sunk onto the floor. John couldn't possibly already like this woman, could he? There was no chance of things working out between them, was there? Sherlock didn't want this; he didn't want it to the point it hurt. But there was no way to stop it. He couldn't keep John from dating no matter how much he wanted to.

_If you want this situation to change, you need to tell him._

Mrs Hudson's words rang like a bell in Sherlock's mind. How could telling John that he was in love with him make any difference? The doctor had been adamantly stating he was heterosexual for as long as the consulting detective had known him. But, hypothetically, what if it _did_ make a difference? Was Sherlock willing to risk losing the one best friend he ever had? The consulting detective often took a chance, would gamble for the thrill of a challenge, but this was something else entirely. Sherlock's mind was spinning as he even considered following his landlady's advice and just throw everything out in the open.

He shook his head. He was exhausted, and this situation required a lot of thinking, something he wasn't sure his brain couldn't handle at the moment. He changed into his pyjamas and went to bed, wondering what course of action would attract the best results.


End file.
